


The Lovers

by SanctuaryTrin



Category: Jynnic - Fandom, Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: But not a full fledged DDLG thing, Daddy Kink, F/M, No Underage Sex, No-Blood-Relation, Pseudo-Incest, bit more nebulous than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:01:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8925061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanctuaryTrin/pseuds/SanctuaryTrin





	

When she was younger, he had dark brown hair. He never took shit from her teachers and bought her ice cream when she aced a test. He let her watch the old black and white “The Mummy” when she was ten, and laughed when she revealed that she preferred Karloff to the dashing young love interest.

He was brilliant at math, so he spent long hours bent over homework with her, patiently explaining, until his neck and shoulders ached.

He was grouchy, smoky, and kind.

 

Her friends’ mothers never let their daughters sleep over at Jyn’s house; having a single, adoptive father made them nervous, and he understood, but it made Jyn furious. He never touched her except to help her put on a band-aid, or pat her on the shoulder, or give her a hug as she sobbed over some childhood injustice. Once, he kissed the the top of her head. It was Christmas Eve, and she had been crying about her mom.

 

Orson Krennic had been Jyn’s godfather when the accident occurred. Jyn was nine. She called him Mr. Krennic for a year or so, then switched to Orson. She only called him Dad in times of mocking exasperation, and he would chuck a rolled up sock at her, or yell at her to stop being such a smartass.

Jyn’s parents had probably expected Orson to be married at some point, but things never worked out. He went on dates from time to time, and even discreetly had a girlfriend for about a month when Jyn was twelve, but nothing ever came of it.

Jyn’s martial arts classes curbed her teenage sass to the point where life remained quite peaceful between them. When Jyn got her driver’s license she could come and go as she pleased, and once she turned eighteen she could stay out as late as she wanted. Orson was always there to sit with her at the kitchen table when she came home.

 

He listened as she over analyzed her problems and lustily crunched her way through a midnight bowl of cereal, him longing to have a cigarette even though he had quit a couple years ago, watching as she sucked milk from her lower lip and rubbed her eyes, leaving a smudge of kohl underneath.

He watched as she stood on her tiptoes in front of the hall mirror and smoothed down her dress, her head tilted, mouth open slightly, eyes travelling up and down her own body as she searched for flaws. There were none.

He watched as she padded through the living room on her way to the bathroom, wearing a tee shirt and no bra, a dark patch visible between her legs underneath the thin white cotton. He watched and realized, then turned his head and switched off the television.

Jaw clenched, desperate for a smoke, desperate to remove himself from her presence, desperate to get to his own bedroom, desperate to unzip his pants and release his swollen aching cock, desperate to think about her eyes and mouth while he stroked himself and gritted his teeth and came in a rush, shamefully, horribly.

 

Jyn didn’t want to go to college. She wanted to stay in town and teach martial arts to younger students. Orson seemed very eager to help her get her own apartment. He searched through listings, leaving them red-circled on the counter, and he even offered to provide the deposit. Jyn was keenly aware of his absence for the past few months. Staying late at the office, taking long showers, no longer there to talk with at the kitchen table, no longer staying up to watch television, it was as if he just- didn’t want to be around her anymore.

 

The first time Jyn touched herself, she had been thinking about her high school crush. She lay on her side quietly and relaxed into a pleasurable rhythm, concentrating, climbing slowly, but then...nothing. She began again, this time on her hands and knees, her finger circling her clit, and suddenly the image in her head switched to Orson, her adoptive father, silvery hair and penetrating blue eyes, his hands on her naked hips, his cock nudging her cunt from behind, then plunging into her while he said things to her. Dirty things in a gentle voice.

She came so hard she cried out and saw stars exploding.

He had heard Jyn in her room, he heard her rustling, then softly moaning. Then he could swear he heard his name.

The next morning she smelled heavy and rich and radiated satisfaction, like a woman who had been thoroughly pleasured. Her eyes lingered on him, sometimes for several minutes after he had finished talking. He touched his mouth a lot around her, and she touched her neck. It was like living with a lure that could snag him at any second if he got too close. Beckoning and jagged. Her round eyes tormented him. Her mouth was torture. In those last few weeks before she moved out, her cheeks and lips would flush as he lifted a heavy box or leaned over her to help her fill out paperwork, and he would catch her scent again, unperfumed but completely discernable, heightened with excitement, demanding a physical response from him and always, always succeeding. He had never been so hard, so often, in his entire life.

 

Jyn was eighteen and Orson was forty-eight and he loved her. He loved her in every possible way, in every shade of the spectrum, from the palest blue-white to the darkest, most degenerate red. He loved her to insanity. When she moved out, he rejoiced and mourned. He had conquered his desire. He never let on, never. He had clenched and controlled and breathed in and out and kept his distance.

She was an adult now, and his stewardship was over. He had been a good father to her. He had been decent. Almost to the end. Always to her face.

But he still loved her.

And now she was gone.

 

Jyn lay awake in her new apartment, tears streaming down her face. Orson had been relieved to see her go. He wanted to see her go. He didn’t love her. Not like she wanted him to. Her love for him was degenerate, worshipful, innocent. She wanted him to destroy her and then gather her up in his arms and rebuild her all over again. She wanted to destroy him in return.

 

He sounded like his old self on the phone, so she called him often. He said “you know” and “I mean” a lot, and she could delight in his rasping chuckle without the acute pain of having to see his smile, but sometimes she still visualized it, and it was like a stab to her solar plexus.

She went out on a few dates, she lost her virginity to a perfectly nice guy who was very gentle with her, and afterwards she told him she had to wake up early in the morning so could he please leave? She would call him the next day. She had a great time. Really.

Then she stood in the shower and sobbed until the water turned cold.

 

She came home for Christmas, came stamping and panting through the door, boots covered in snow. When Orson saw his Jyn he wanted to fall to his knees before her. But instead, he took her hat and scarf, and hung them up, and glanced at her shining cheeks and lips as she shook the snow from her hair.

They ate dinner and talked, and Orson kept his eyes lowered and his gestures broad. He was diffused, chaotic, and ungrounded. He barely looked at Jyn, barely ate anything, and he talked about shit he didn’t care about.

She did the dishes and he shoveled the front walkway. He smelled like snow when he came back inside. Jyn showered and changed into her nightshirt, then headed toward the living room and found it dark and deserted. Sorrow twisted within her, then coiled tight into anger.  

 

She knocked on his bedroom door and entered before he could reply. He was sitting in bed, sheets up to his waist, wearing a faded blue tee shirt. His hands were clasped in his lap.

He looked puzzled and worried, his forehead creased by broken lines.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I just...I thought we could sit together for a while.”

“Ah.” He looked down and chuckled, then looked to the side and scraped his teeth over his lower lip. “We’ll do something fun tomorrow,” he said gently.

She was still. His eyes found hers again, his lip still held inward under his teeth. And Jyn suddenly realized, he looked heartbroken.

“Is there something I can do?” she whispered. His lower lip emerged, wet. He averted his gaze.

“Go to bed, Jyn.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

Orson froze. His eyes flashed up at Jyn. Whether from heat or from cold she did not know, but they scorched her. She had never seen them that color before, almost platinum, and she was struck with a terrible fear that he actually hated her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and turned to leave the room.

His hand snapped around her wrist and held fast, and there was a breathless moment where neither of them moved.

At last, Jyn turned toward Orson and grasped his wrist with her captive hand, saw his chest rise with excited breath, and she lifted her knee onto the bed to steady herself as she straddled him.

His hand released her wrist, and he brought his thumb to her mouth, to the beloved sheen along her upper lip, and touched her there. Blood pounded in her ears and heat expanded through her chest. His eyes had fire in them. She kissed the pad of his thumb, felt him absorb the kiss, then took his hand and placed it over her heart.

His lips were parted, his face lined and beautiful to her. It was him. Her Orson. Completely hers.

“I’ve always loved this little scar,” Jyn whispered, and lightly rested her fingertip on the tiny pink mark above his upper lip.

Orson drew in a deep, trembling breath and his eyes closed. Everything was surreal, shifted, shaking.  

“Let me touch it, Daddy.”

His eyes flew open.

Jyn pulled her hand away and then drew closer, sliding her hands under his neck, her fingers into the waved hair at the nape. She leaned in and touched her bottom lip to his scar, fitted the little crease of her lip over the slightly swollen ridge of his, and held and breathed him in and felt his entire body stiffen underneath her.

And then she touched the scar with the tip of her tongue, and he was ignited.

He opened his mouth and caught her lower lip, sucking hard, until Jyn made a little sound of pain in the back of her throat. He locked his arms around her and felt her mouth open and he kissed her, hands in her hair, tongue sweeping against hers, flooded with the taste of her, and he found himself smiling through their kiss with frantic happiness.

He had to know, he had to know for sure. He slipped his hand under her nightshirt, up to her panties, and pressed his fingers against her. Jyn whimpered, clutched his shoulders, and rubbed herself against his hand. He could feel through the soaked fabric how wet she was, but he needed more. He slipped his fingers under her panties and dipped into her fiery wetness.  “Hah! W-Wait!” she cried out and he withdrew quickly. “Let-Let me..” she stammered, and stood up, pulling off her underwear and tossing it aside. He looked scared and repentant, then all at once intense and focused as she straddled him. “Please touch me again,” she begged, fingers curled into his hair.

He did. He stroked her hot soft layers, found her clit and circled it, marvelled at how deliciously wet she was while she hid her burning face in the slope of his neck.

“Is this what I do to you, Jyn?”

Jyn was gasping, rubbing, riding his hand deliriously. She was already so close to coming, she could barely keep control.

“How long have I been doing this to you? How long?”

Stroking, circling. She wanted him inside her, fucking her, but his voice and his fingers were overpowering.

Then, he stopped.

“No! Please. Stay here,” she panted, her lips feathering against his ear.  

He brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked, then kissed her, and she tasted them together and knew he would never leave her again.

She fumbled with the sheets, tried to find him, and he smiled and stroked her clit and she wanted to bite him for being so cruel. At last she uncovered him, blushing furiously at the sight of his cock, wanting to explore him but too impatient, too desperate.

She grasped him and stroked herself with the tip, biting her lower lip, paying him back for something, anything, everything he ever did. His huge hands were on her hips, digging into her flesh. He began to whimper and she fitted him to her, then impaled herself upon him.

“Ah! Oh...Oh God, oh Jyn...Little Jyn,” he gasped, and threw his head to the side as if in a delirium.

She felt so dirty, so purely in love. She rode him slowly and drank in all of the little sounds he made, every expression, every wince and flash of his blue eyes. She ascended higher, pulled taut, higher still, tense and vibrating, begging for the thing that she already held tight in her grip.

“Do I feel good Orson?” she whispered, and felt him twitch inside her. She was testing him, trying to find out what to call her lover, trying to reconcile the father with this man whom she desired above all else.

“Call me Daddy, little Jyn,” he gasped, and she let go, clenching and pulsing in violent waves, seeing stars, feeling the heat rush from her over him, feeling his own response burst up inside her, hearing his cries and drawing him in, then collapsing forward with a shuddering “Daddy…”

 

She never went back to the apartment. He retrieved a few things and left the rest. He would buy her anything she needed. She slept in his bed, though they slept little, and they turned her bedroom into a study.

 

Orson seemed to become more youthful. He let his hair grow out until it curled up at the ends and covered his ears because Jyn loved to grip it so much. She would put on one of his white shirts and walk barefoot through the house, tidying up, making tea, letting it steep while she stood at the counter and rubbed the top of her foot up and down her calf. He would lurk and follow her and come upon her suddenly, slipping his hand up under the shirt and cupping her bottom, bending his fingers up to find her always so wet, always ready for him. He would wrap his arm around her and lightly grip her throat as he touched her. He liked to feel the little noises she made through the thin skin on her neck, and she would open her legs further and he would take her there, standing at the kitchen counter, until she gushed over his cock and screamed his name. Then he liked to pick her up and carry her to the bedroom, Jyn still flushed and delirious, and feast upon her. When it became more than he could bear, his mouth full of the taste of her, her nails scraping his scalp, he would thrust into her tight heat and spend almost instantly.

Then he would bring her tea.

 

Going out to dinner was agony, and Jyn loved it. She loved watching Orson Krennic fully armored in his gray suit, hair combed back, scowling over the menu while she stirred her water with her finger and then sucked it. He would glance at her, eyes bright under a dark, frustrated brow. A look of warning. Every move she made was pure sensuality, beckoning him, and he would clear his throat or fake cough or shift in his seat restlessly. Neither of them drank, they were already drunk, already reeling, and they would stumble through the front door and Jyn would fall on her hands and knees on the rug in front of the hall mirror, and let her lover unzip his dress pants and lift up her skirt and fuck her, and let her lover watch himself fucking her, and she watched his thick, flushed cock plunge into her cunt, then pull out wet and shiny, and she would come for him when he told her she could. When he commanded her. And her favorite, favorite thing in the whole world was watching the creased, wincing, pained look on Orson’s face morph into vulnerable release.

 

In the dim light of morning, she would clutch him to her, his head tousled and warm. He knew her breasts would be tender from the night before, so he would nuzzle and rub against her like an animal covering itself with a beloved scent, nose between her breasts, underneath them, while she tugged at his hair and made little desperate sounds. He brushed his mouth, close-lipped, against her sensitive nipples and she would throw her leg over him and clench, already aching, painfully missing him even though he was pressed against her.  And then he would fuck her luxuriously, taking his time, tracing her collarbone while she touched the curious little bones on his shoulders, and she would make that delightful little high gasp as the ridge of his cock stroked just the right spot, and he would put his fingers in her mouth for her to suck on as he picked up speed. She held on, held on for as long as she could, but she knew that as soon as she opened her eyes and saw his, fiercely blue, she would clench powerfully around his cock and come until the jarring pulses felt like sobs, and he would moan and shoot deep into her until she was overflowing.

 

Orson Krennic was forty-eight and Jyn Erso Krennic was eighteen and she loved the man who raised her. She loved brown-haired Orson, smoking Orson, homework and laundry and ice cream Orson. And she loved her daddy. Silver-haired, lined around the eyes and forehead and mouth, sad-eyed and begging and demanding. Completely hers.

  
  



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